


Redemption Isn't

by Rag



Series: shipstuck [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Bulges and Nooks, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Canon Universe, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Name-Calling, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Physical Abuse, Sexual Violence, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 00:12:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11047251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rag/pseuds/Rag
Summary: He doesn’t come to see you, ever. It’s always you going to him. You always try to hold out and starve him for it. You imagine him coming to you, wet and begging for it, and you would finally be able to put him in his place, exploit his weakness and make him submit. And he would take it, and he’d cry, and beg for more. That’s what you imagine, because it doesn’t come. He never turns you down when you come to him, but he never wants you enough to seek you out.





	Redemption Isn't

**Author's Note:**

> "fantastic racism" as in fantasy racism (it's gross blood caste stuff)

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you still creep through the vents to see him, even though you’re certain that everyone on the ship knows exactly what you’re doing and with who. You follow his awful scent, but you don’t exactly need to, not anymore. He never moves from his main room, and you’ve memorized the maze-like path.

He doesn’t come to see you, ever. It’s always you going to him. You always try to hold out and starve him for it. You imagine him coming to you, wet and begging for it, and you would finally be able to put him in his place, exploit his weakness and fuck him into submission. Take your punishment, Gamzee. _Take it_. And he would take it, and he’d cry, and beg for more. That’s what you imagine, because it doesn’t come. He never turns you down when you come to him, but he never wants you enough to seek you out.

You left Dave a little over a week ago, and you waited for that to heal before seeking out Gamzee again. As much as you wanted him, you knew better. He would pick up on the still-raw wound and drive his sharp teeth into it just to feel it tear.

What you really wanted was both of them, but you could tell Dave was freaked out by blackrom, and that the minute he figure out what you were doing, you’d have to choose between them. Fuck him, why the fuck were humans so weak, you never would have started anything with him if you’d known how weak and weird they were about perfectly normal quadrant behavior.

When you’re being honest with yourself, you know it’s not normal quadrant behavior. You know pitch romance shouldn’t be driven by malice devoid of redemptive qualities. But you crave him like he’s a fucking drug, against your better judgement. If you weren’t so positive his dumb clown gods were so totally fake and not real, you’d think he might be mind controlling you with some kind of juju, making you come back over and over again even when your higher mind is screaming at you to turn back and never see him again.

Since the two of you started this, this is the longest you’ve ever gone without meeting up. And you’d thought (stupidly!) that maybe a full week would be long enough that he _would_ come to you. Of course he didn’t bother.

You get to the vent and he hasn’t noticed you yet. You hear him mumbling something nonsense words over and over. Probably a prayer to his fake gods, who would reward him for his senseless murder. You feel your blood start to boil at the idea that not only does he feel absolutely no remorse for what he did, not only is he getting away with it with no punishment, but he’s fucking _proud_ of it. You don’t often get the upper hand on him. He’s usually noticed you by now, and said something vile to lure you down. Has he forgotten that you might come around? Ha! His loss. You slam the vent screen off and hurl it at him without another thought. A corner catches on the flesh of his thick skull, smudging away some of that moronic makeup and making blood drip down the side of his face.

You feel your bulge start to swell.

“You that fuckin’ hungry for it, cunt? Thought you’d finally fucked off.”

You can hear the smile in his words, sharp and angry. He’s pissed, more than usual. You hate yourself almost as much as you hate him for the fear that tells you to flee. But you want this too much. Whatever he has to give, you can take it, for the half of a chance to make him hurt.

You jump down and charge him with your claws out, but you’re on his turf. Of course he has the upper hand, and of course he intercepts you with a laugh and lands a quick, breath-taking blow to your stomach. He wrestles you down. You don’t fall easily, you’re almost as strong as him, especially with all the fear, adrenaline, and arousal coursing through your veins like this. There are some times you can even get the best of him and turn the tables around. But today, you fail, like you usually do. He laughs his disgusting rotting grape breath in your face. You’re gasping for air but he’s not even panting, and you wonder if he actually had to try at all, or just pretended to because he likes to make you struggle only to fail.

Still, you feel yourself reacting to having him on top of you again. You want this so bad you already feel your blood rushing to your face, and you can smell the same on him. His clown makeup would hide it to the eye, but you smell it. He’s as excited as you are for this.

(Is he? Are you just pretending you’re on the same level as him? No, of course you are, don’t buy into his self-aggrandizing bullshit.)

“Tell me, bitch, what brought you back? Can’t get enough of the killer?” That’s what he calls his fucking bulge, because he’s a disgusting excuse for sentient life. “Or maybe you like chillin’ with someone who doesn’t constantly lie about how fuckin’ intolerable you are?”

You hate him. You hate the way he talks, that weird human accent all slow and lazy with all those slurred vowels, like he’s still high on spoor slime. The human accent of the human clown death cult, which he always worshipped, the entire time, openly, you just didn’t think it mattered, you should have seen it coming, you should have known it was hum, you should have-

He slaps you. “Answer me when I talk to you, bitch.”

You scratch your claws into his back and he hisses. “Maybe you’ve gone too long without someone reminding you what a useless pile of shit you are.”

He laughs, even though smell grape jelly blood oozing from three fresh tears on his back. “Is that the best you got for me? I’m starving for more, baby.”

“Don’t call me that!” You dig your nails in deep and he moans. You feel his bulge, unsheathed and wriggling, through the dumbass clown print pajama pants that he never changes out of. Stupid piece of shit, can’t even dress properly with his fake fucking god tier-

“C’mon, baby, don’t be like that,” and yeah you probably shouldn’t have let him know that you fucking hate the word out of his mouth. But he would have figured it out anyways. Everything is inevitable with him. You’re an open book for him. He cuts straight to your core, past your defenses, and digs the sharp end of his razor in right where you’re the weakest.

“Take off your gross idiot jester pants.”

“So hasty today, little pussy cat,” he says, and you feel bile rise in your throat. He knows exactly what he does to you when he flaunts his murders in your face like that. God, he’s disgusting. He smells awful, like that fucking stupid, disgusting soda and some gross human food, fried dehydrated cheese flavored corn products or something equally terrible and unpalatable.

 “You reek.”

“How else could you find me?”

“Oh, fuck off, you know I can-“

He drags his claws down the side of your pants, shredding them open. You hate when he does that. You hate having to alchemize new clothes in your pajamas because he ripped everything you were wearing to shreds. You hate the too-high odds of running into Rose or Kanaya or Karkat or Dave on your way over, every one of those interactions awful in their own special way. The awkwardness of those moments is so thick it almost has its own smell.

Gamzee knows this.

You try to do the same to his pants, but he grabs your wrist hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t, bitch, I like these.”

Bile rises in your throat as he takes off his own pants and throws them across the room. Your bulges tangle together fast, like they missed each other. You’re proud, at least, that his body is reacting like this to yours. He can say whatever the fuck he wants about how ugly and unfuckable you are, but if his bulge is this big already, he’s a damn liar.

Is this the kind of thing you accept as praise now? The fact that he gets a fucking boner when he calls you bitch? You left Dave for _this_?

Yes. You left Dave for this, so that you could hurt him back. Make him pay. You have to make him pay.

He sinks his bulge into your nook and your eyes roll back into your head. You’ve needed this.

“Don’t get greedy, bitch, you know what to do with yours,” he says, like your bulge wasn’t already seeking out his nook.

“You love the sound of your voice almost as much as you love your dumb clowns, don’t you?”

“Don’t evoke them during our sweet hatemaking, slut.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t talk so goddamn much. Maybe fuck me when we’re fucking? Instead of running your dumb mouth like it’s halfway through a marathon?”

Part of why you like mouthing off to him so much is that it’s so fun. And part of it is that, sometimes, he actually takes the hint. He does now, and starts wriggling his bulge in you just a little too hard, just how the two of you like it. You return the favor, and he  groans in satisfaction.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight, bitch. You know what I think?” he asks, and you’re already dreading the answer, because you can hear the smirk on his face.

“I don’t give two shits what you think.”

“I think that little human dumped your ass.”

Your blood runs cold. You try to control your reaction, because he’s probably just throwing shit at a wall to see what sticks, but you know he sees. He laughs. And now he knows. And now he has this to lord over you. You feel completely naked in front of him, even though most of your clothes are still on. You feel like you’re naked and tied open, chained to his bed, forced to reveal all your softest parts to his claws. He thrusts hard into you and your back arches, and it’s so blindly hard that it’s all you can think about until he starts running his mouth again.

“What did you even get out of fucking such a weak little freak? Did you like to make him scream? That scrawny little bitch needs to be pushed around-“

“Shut the fuck up! Don’t fucking talk about him!” This is bad, you’re on the defensive and you’re out of your mind with lust and pain. You waited a week to see him but it wasn’t long enough, of course it wasn’t long enough.

“I get it, skank. Sometimes you poke shit to see what it does. And you spread for anyone who’ll fuck you.”

“Shut up, that’s not fucking true-“

“What really blows my mind is that you thought anyone but a blood mutant freak might actually want _you_ in a red quadrant.”

That. Hurts. Holy shit. It’s lies, it’s lies, he’s lying, it’s not real, he’s fucking with you.

You grab his hair and pull him down hard. “You’re almost as stupid as you’re disgusting. The hemospectrum is irrelevant window dressing to make you feel like you’re special and not completely empty.” You feel his bulge swell in you, and you know you’ve hit on something. And then he starts fucking talking again, like he always does, he never stops, you want to rip his tongue out of his fucking skull just to make him _shut the fuck up_ -

“You'd like that. You’re _so close_ to being chosen as a high-rank, but you just missed the cut that would make her give a shit about you."

Bringing up Karkat was annoying. Bringing up Dave hurt. Bringing her up sears you like a white-hot flame.

“ _Fuck off_ ,” you snarl, which is so fucking uncool, holy shit you’re losing it, you will never hear the end of this, he’ll know now, he’ll know how much she means to you, he’ll pull it out whenever he wants to make you hurt.

“Shit, girl, sometimes I almost feel sorry for you. But you brought it on yourself. You know that, right? You killed your best fuckin’ pal for something she didn’t even do. Something she woulda had every right to do, too.” He’s talking and talking and you can’t shut him up and you just listen in stunned silence and feel the sharp sting of tears in your eyes as your nook swells with his fattening bulge. “You deserve every minute of pain you get for fucking with a highblood, cunt.”

He’s winning. He always wins.

“Fuck you. You’re useless,” you say, and you put as much bite as you can into it but it’s weak, just like you’re weak. You kick him and fuck your bulge into him as hard as he can.

He groans, laughs. “There we go, bitch. Keep it up. I don’t like fucking a dead fish.”

“You’re fucking disgusting! You’re awful and no one can stand you! You sit in this fucking room all day praying to face gods-“

He smacks you across the face and you tear your nails into the flesh of his back. Good. Fucking good, he hates it when you say this, you feel his blood sticky and hot on your fingers. Hurt him. Hurt him, make him pay.

“Don’t talk shit on the dark carnival, you blasphemous fuckin’ whore.”

You laugh. “What, are the clown gods gonna get me? You’re delusional!”

He laughs and thrusts harder and god you hope he’s close because you’re too close, and coming first with him is not in any way pleasant. He knows how to cut it short and he knows how to make it hurt afterwards. You take it because you know you’d do the same if you outlasted him, that you have done the same when you’ve outlasted him. Seeing him feeling so good and cutting it off, turning that to pain, is one of the most satisfying things you’ve ever done.

“You know what I like, Terezi?” he says. You think again about cutting his tongue out, you’d love to chew it and chew it and spit it back out at him, and _god_ your thoughts were violent before but never like this, he’s changed you, it scares you sometimes how badly you want to hurt him.

“Worshipping fake gods and getting high all day?”

He wraps his hands around your neck. Fear courses through you and you don’t want to die but you want him to fucking kill you. The animal instinct for life overrides it but god you want to die you just want to fucking die. He presses and you wheeze.

“Don’t,” he says.

He lets go. And you don’t say it again, even though you want to. You loathe him for waiting, silently goading you on. Daring you to say it. Waiting until you don’t, waiting for you to feel the shame burn from stepping down and admitting that you can’t fight him off.

“I like how tight your nook is now that you’re not letting that human inside of it.”

Something in you snaps and you let go. You scream so hard that it burns your throat and scratch at his face. You let go with all the pent-up rage and energy you’d been saving so that you’d be on your guard, kick him and punch him.

And he laughs.

He gives it to you how you like it, he lets you taste bliss before he cuts it off and turns it to pain with a few too-hard thrusts in your oversensitive nook, a sharp flick down the base of your retracting bulge right when it swells the fattest. And then he fucks you hard and spills in you, plays up the groans and the pleasure. You kick him through it, and even though you’re too weak to do too much damage you like to think that you killed a few seconds of his bliss. It’s cold comfort. You know you lost this one, just like you lose most of them.

He peels himself off of you and towels himself off. You get up on shaky, bruised legs and crawl back to the vent before he has a chance to tell you to get the fuck out of his pimping crib or whatever the fuck he calls it. The metal is cold on your bare legs, and metal washers dig into your shins, but it’s not much worse than the rest of your damage. All of it would heal with time.

You find your way back to your room, wipe yourself down, and put on your pajama pants. You’ll alchemize three pairs of pants next time, so you don’t have to keep going back and forth and back and forth. But you need time right now to be alone. Even with your glasses, you’d be sniffling, your face would be puffy and ugly, and it would be obvious to everyone who saw you that you were crying, and you can’t have that happen. You just have to wait it out. You grab a blanket and Doctor Honeytongue and you hug him until you stop shaking.

You hate him so much. You hate him, you never want to see him again. But you know you will.


End file.
